


The Phantom's Ghost

by Ms_Myth



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: 19th Century, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Ghosts, Horror, Humor, Modern Era, Past Character Death, Suburban Gothic, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22434067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Myth/pseuds/Ms_Myth
Summary: After several years of marriage, Erik and Christine finally move into a home above ground. However, their new house comes with a surprise built in, and the Opera Ghost finds that he must deal with a ghost of a different type. And even more supernatural dangers are lurking in the shadows...
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 22





	1. A House with Real Doors

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was beta-ed by the user SymphonyinA on fanfiction.net. Many thanks to her for all the help. This story uses a mishmash of Leroux, ALW, and Kay elements for the backstory. It is modern, but non-AU. Expect a lot of plot twists.

Christine falls in love with the house the instant she sees it. For years, Erik had promised a house above the ground, with real doors and windows and no torture chambers, but they would always be distracted away from that subject for some reason or another. She had grown to love their little house by the lake, so much so that she could not believe they were moving away, and cried when it finally came time to depart. For the entirety of the voyage to their new home, she sunk into a confused and melancholy stupor. Everything felt unreal.

Even now, finally standing on the threshold of her new house, the scene feels too perfect to be true, if not for the sunlight stinging her eyes, and her husband’s cold, bony fingers intertwined around her own. She gives his hand a quick squeeze, and then hugs him around his thin waist.

“Thank you, Erik. It’s perfect!” she exclaims, leaning her head on his shoulder and smiling brightly, her excitement slightly exaggerated as she tries to keep travel fatigue from affecting her mood.

“It is adequate,” Erik answers, squinting and raising a hand to shield his eyes. Even behind the shaded lenses that form part of his “normal human” guise, the afternoon sun is too bright for eyes quite adjusted to darkness.

The house stands at the end of a silent, leaf-covered road, accompanied only by a copse of trees behind it. It is built in a smooth, modern style, but its design has, fortunately, not completely forsaken aesthetic for utility. The garage is a separate shack set to the left side, leaving a nearly symmetrical facade. Under the gray cross-hipped roof with small, unobtrusive chimneys, the jutting central portion is furnished with yellow brick while the rest is composed of beige stone. A pair of iron porch lights hang on either side of the front door. Two rows of long, rectangular windows mark out the placement of the first and second floor rooms. Trailing ivy covers the right side, climbing up toward a single Gothic turret that breaks the balance of the design. Erik vows to remove that folly as soon as he acquires the house blueprints. It is an unsightly blemish, both in its placement and its style, an antiquated fixture attached to a thoroughly modern construction.

Christine slips away from him as her attention falls on the rose bushes about the porch. Though a few still struggle to bloom, most are half-wilted from neglect. She caresses the faded and crumbling petals of one pink blossom, then looks up at the dusty windows. It has been long since anyone showed the once proud garden any love.

Papa’s stories told of beautiful little elves that lived in roses. They whispered happy predictions of love and marriage into the dreams of good girls, but also carried spears as sharp as any thorn, with which they avenged broken hearts. Once in Perros-Guirec, she put her ear to a rose to try and hear the elves, but heard nothing except the petals rustling. Her hair got tangled in the branches, and both she and Raoul received a number of scratches on their hands while freeing her. After that, she was upset until Raoul took a turn at listening for the elves, and while he too found only silence, he reassured her the elves must have been too stunned by her beauty to speak.

She smiles at the happy memory, but quickly dismisses it from her mind before she can grieve for the beloved friend who is now lost to her. She looks back toward the husband she has chosen, and finds him looking skittish as he stands alone and exposed in the sunlight and open air.

The entire time, Erik has been contemplating the sight of his wife. She fits perfectly with her surroundings, happy, beautiful, and vivacious, the proud mistress of her home; but as for him, even while wearing his disguise, he would never belong in this world of the bourgeoisie.

Christine puts aside her desire to explore the grounds further when she notices his discomfort. She returns to his side and takes his hand.

“Come, you must show me around the inside,” she half pleads with, half encourages him, ducking behind him and gently, playfully shoving him forward.

Erik nods stiffly and pulls her after him. As they progress the short distance to the door, he recalls he has dreamed of this moment for much of his life, the day he could mingle among other men in his perfected mask, an adoring wife at his side, returning home not to a cellar but a comfortable flat that fit a man of his income. Trepidation is replaced by elation, until he is outright giddy at the idea of showing his wife her newest present. He even dares to imagine Christine’s overjoyed reaction once they are inside. Perhaps she would even let him kiss her.

Hats and coats are quickly cast aside as Erik begins to expound upon the house’s features.

“Look, dear, here is the parlor. The kitchen and dining space come connected, like they do in all the homes built in the last couple of years. An open floor plan makes the space feel larger, you see, not to mention saves building material.”

Christine nods, her eyes sweeping over the downstairs space. She sees that while the home is sparsely decorated, it is still tastefully arranged. The dining room occupies the center of the wide area, with the kitchen to the left and the parlor to the right. The kitchen consists of a stove built into the left-side wall and a sink in the back wall, connected by a curving marble countertop. A tall white box, perhaps an icebox, stands next to the sink. A rectangular cabinet is built into the middle of the floor, topped with a marble pane that matches the counter, and two tall wooden stools are placed at one side

“An island.” Erik helpfully explains. “A bit more space to work on, provided you remember not to collide with it.”

In the parlor, a round coffee table surrounded by gray wingback chairs is placed in front of a fireplace built into the wall. Above the fireplace, there are three small alcoves, which could be used to place any number of decorative trinkets. Off to the right there are three long brown leather couches placed at right angles to each other, forming a rectangle with a very low glass-door cabinet, above which stands a strange black block. Even further to the right, a bookshelf occupies part of the wall.

However, Christine’s attention is not drawn toward furniture or the strange apparatuses, but to the walls, as the back of the house extends into a glass box. The yard and the trees in the distance are readily visible. Light from the setting sun pours in directly, dyeing everything a warm gold. She gasps and claps her hands over her mouth, awed at the strange sight.

“It’s like magic.” She whispers, once she recovers her faculties.

“Who is to say that it is not?” Erik remarks, only half joking. The house’s design indeed blends truth and illusion together like a well-designed magic trick. The steel structure and glass panes reflect a clean, cutting-edge modernity, but also offer a primal thrill by placing the residents among the surrounding landscape. He appreciates the aesthetics of such a structure, and had such building technologies been available when he first learned his craft, he would surely have attempted work in this style; but he is less sure about actually living here. Yet, now, the joy in Christine’s eyes informs him that he has chosen the right house.

“Thank you, Erik.”

Throwing her arms around his neck, she stands on her toes and lifts her head. Erik, cooperating, leans down.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispers, her lips brushing against the leather of his mask.

Erik has been incredibly brave in taking this momentous step toward reintegrating with society. She wants him to know she appreciates his efforts.

She slips one hand down toward the edge of his mask. Immediately, his body tenses, and his eyes dart toward the glass walls and the yard beyond.

“Don’t worry.” She mouths.

He offers no resistance, but still closes his eyes. Even if he knows by now she will not recoil or be disappointed by the sight of his true face, a lifetime of conditioning is hard to break.

Leather, painted to resemble sallow skin, peels away to reveal hollow cheeks, scarred lips, and the gaping hole that should have been a nose. Christine caresses one sharp, jutting cheekbone, and places a quick kiss upon the same location; a longer kiss follows on his thin lips.

Pulling back, she finds Erik’s eyes are now open, and reads the silent plea within them. She smiles and puts her forehead forward. He kisses her there, then slowly, carefully on her eyebrow When she does not flinch, he kisses her round rosy cheeks, and then her small snub nose, and finally her soft lips.

Their kiss is long and lingering. Once his initial doubts have passed, Erik’s passion bursts forth and the world no longer exists for him beyond Christine. She kisses breath into his lungs and warmth into his veins. When she is obligated to break off their kiss, he embraces her and buries his face in her coiffure, basking in her scent. He only pulls away when she turns her head, the motion tickling his malformed nasal cavity.

“There are only some spare bedrooms over that way.” He tells her when he finds her peering over his side at a shadowed corridor by the side of the staircase; the curious little kitten. “You shall find better things to see upstairs.”

With one long arm wrapped around her waist, he ushers her up the hardwood half-turn staircase. While ascending, he notes the electric lights installed under every tread. He recalls when the Palais Garnier switched from gaslights to electric bulbs, and is again impressed that a technology he knows as a novelty has now become commonplace.

In the middle of the staircase, the wall by the landing has been converted into a bookshelf. Christine barely catches a glance of the titles stacked there before they proceed on. Some of them are brand new, others are worn; many of them are works that Erik already possesses, and she wonders why he chose to acquire these extra copies.

They climb up the stairs, then pass through the second floor foyer, as undecorated as the downstairs area. Christine is suddenly seized with longing for her underground home; as unconventional of a dwelling as it was, it was cozy and comfortable, unlike this empty, unwelcoming structure that only barely hints at human habitation. She looks up at Erik and rests her hand over his knuckles, reassuring herself that the two of them together had brought warmth into the dark corners of the opera-house cellars, and they would now do the same for their new home.

Erik stops and shows her through the final door on the right-side, revealing a luxurious bedroom that stood in bold contrast to the rest of the house. A large brass bed is set against the center of a side wall. On either side are two black lacquer nightstands, each topped with a brass lamp. A little distance from the entryway, there is a similar black lacquer bureau, decorated with mother-of-pearl inlays in the pattern of graceful Chinese ladies. Along the opposite wall are several windows with blinds drawn, and under the windows is a round end table with a mirror and a bowl of potpourri. Next to it, thrown in the corner, is a large pile of brightly colored cushions. The room is completed by a heavy patterned rug that lines the center of the floor.

“This will be your room.” He states to her.

She chuckles and shakes her head, wishing, not for the first time, that her husband could be more confident. Though respectable homes contained separate quarters for the husband and wife, the two of them had spent every night for years in their Louis-Philippe Room--Erik’s former room became the music room after he disposed of his coffin. She wants Erik by her side, and she knows he needs her company. “Surely you mean our room.”

“Y-yes, I did.” Erik quickly corrects himself, his face taking on a pinkish tint. He bows his head sheepishly and mutters, “That is, if you think it proper....”

“Do you mean what we were doing before was improper?”

“N-no!” He exclaims. The more he talks, the less articulate he becomes. “Of course not! There is nothing wrong with a married couple sharing a bed. But, you see, there was only one usable room left in that house. Are you sure you want to…”

“Erik, listen to me. I am your wife, and I want you with me. In this room.”

She smooths a hand over his hair. He looks up and finds her standing straight with her arms crossed and a determined set to her eyes and mouth that discourages any further questioning. He can only nod, comforted by her decision.

The next instant, an excited glint enters his golden eyes. “Wait here, my dear. There’s something more I need to show you.”

He pats her shoulder, then darts off as fast as his lanky legs will carry him. Christine loses track of him as he turns a corner. Left by herself, she sets to exploring her room. First, she tests the bed and finds it decently firm. Then, she checks through the drawers of the nightstands and bureau and finds them all empty except for a folded patchwork quilt, which she spreads over the bed. She pulls back a corner of the curtain to look out at the front yard, then sits down on the cushions. She almost sinks into them and spends a good while extricating herself.

Having looked through her bedroom, she sits down on the bed and waits for Erik. The minutes pass, and her attention is increasingly drawn toward the two doors that face the foot of the bed. One of them, a sliding door, opens to show a closet containing some cardboard boxes; the other door is shut.

She should do Erik asked, as otherwise she might ruin the surprise he planned, but this is her house and she is curious. She steps off the bed peers through the door. It leads to a bathroom, which in turn has its own door leading to the hallway.

Her curiosity not sated, she steps into the hall and through the next door. The room is some sort of nursery. A large chest contains buckets of blocks and two toy cars. Standing against the wall is a shelf lined with dolls and stuffed animals. In the corner is a large, round plush bear that doubles as a seat. She cannot resist exclaiming in delight, but immediately experiences a sinking sense of guilt for not waiting. She returns to her room, using all her acting skills to compose herself.

She has always wanted children, new lives to bring into the world and shower with the same love that Papa and Mamma Valerius had given her. And, even though she might be blinded by love, she believes Erik would be good with children as well. Though he is no angel, he is a gentle guide and attentive guardian. He only needs to stop doubting himself.

Perhaps, then, he created the nursery to show he is finally ready for the duty of fatherhood. She grasps a pillow as a warm, fuzzy feeling stirs in her chest. Very soon, she hopes, she can have her own happy little surprise for Erik. Since their wedding, she has often dreamed about a child, dreams so beautiful and real that she would be reluctant to wake from them. Hugging the pillow to her, she closes her eyes imagines it as a boy--it is always a boy in her dreams--with golden hair and freckled cheeks, and with his father’s eyes.

Her fantasies are interrupted by an energetic piano tune. She listens, entranced, as it plays out a joy that borders on horror, a wild ecstasy unconfined by reason. Recognizing it as Erik’s work, she heeds the call of the melody and drifts after it until she reaches a set of double doors.

Abruptly, the music stops. Erik rushes out into the hallway and takes her hand.

“Yes, there you are. Now, behold.”

He flings the door open. At first, Christine cannot believe her eyes. There, before her, is an almost perfect reproduction of their previous music room. She can recognize every one of the beloved instruments: a flute, Erik’s new accordion, her father’s violin, and even the imposing organ that occupies an entire wall. She presses down on the ivory keys of the grand piano, judging it to be real by the sound and the sensation. Everything is exactly as she remembers, except for the addition of a sliding glass door to the back patio. As the final minutes of dying red sunshine reflect off polished wood surfaces and brass rims, the usually somber chamber, draped in black crepe, glows with a warm and inviting radiance.

“How did you do it?” She asks breathlessly.

“Curious child, be careful about your questions, for a magician’s secrets might be too dangerous for you to know.” Erik’s words tickle her ear as he nestles his chin in the crook of her neck and clasps her in his arms. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.” Christine turns and quickly kisses him on the cheek. “I love you, Erik. Thank you, for all of this.”

He beams at her, blissfully enjoying the sight of her happiness. She looks toward the piano, and then back him.

“Can you play me something？“ She begs, stroking his wizened but graceful hands with her own.

Though reluctant to relinquish his hold on her, he nods and pulls away, seating himself in the piano bench. Under his nimble fingers, Conradin Kreutzer’s _Seliger Tod_ fills the air. As he plays, he sings of an all-consuming love that gives life even as it kills. She joins him, their voices intertwining, soaring into the heavens above.

As the sunset fades into twilight, their song stops. Christine sits down on the edge of the bench, and Erik slides away to allow her more room. She leans her head against Erik’s shoulder, and he winds his fingers in a lock of her hair that has slipped free of her coiffure. They sit still, watching the sky change color.

“I must switch on the lights, Christine.” Erik mumbles, making a half-hearted attempt to stand.

Christine tugs on his sleeve, keeping him beside her. “No. Not yet.”

A hint of melancholy crosses her eyes as she watches the sky change color from soft pastels to a deep indigo. She realizes that she misses sunsets and sunrises, and knowing the passage of time; down in Erik’s labyrinth there was no day or night, except for the blinking off and on of artificial lights.

“Are you happy?” Erik asks, worried at her shift in mood.

“I’ve never been happier.”

“Then Erik is a good husband?”

“Yes, you are.” She replies, hoping he does not feel the need to ask again.

“And you are a perfect wife.” He kisses her forehead. “My perfect, living wife. How can Erik ever deserve you…”

He trails off, finally overwhelmed by the fulfillment of his long-held dreams. He burns with the rapturous joy and love of a sinner in the face of God’s grace, but also simmers with a tired sense of finality; fear and despair lurk in the back of his mind as he knows that he dares not strive for anything further

“Erik, stop. This is exactly what you deserve.” Christine firmly declares as she reaches up and wipes away the tears forming at the corners of his recessed eyes. “You deserve to live in a normal house, and to walk among your neighbors in daylight. You deserve to be happy and you deserve to be loved.”

She kisses away Erik’s tears before they can fall. The salt taste lingers on her tongue. She takes a deep breath and tries to hold back her own tears.

The more she comforts him, the more Erik is awed by her kindness. With a sob, he falls at her feet and reaches for her skirts, but she quickly snatches them away. Then, she reaches down to pull him to his feet.

Whether because of their intense emotional states, or the encroaching darkness, the two of them forget their location.

Erik’s head slams into the bottom of the piano with a resounding thump. Before he can make a sound, Christine yelps and falls to her knees, fretting over his injury.

“Oh, Erik, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do that. Are you hurt?”

He winces, rubbing at the rapidly swelling bump on his scalp. His wife’s cool, soft hands fly to the same spot, and they are more soothing than any balm.

“No, not much. The only damage is to my dignity,” he smiles wryly, “what little remains of it. You have already stolen the rest of it away, along with all my wits.”

She laughs in relief, then leans over and kisses the bump. “You’re still very dignified, Erik. And very witty. And I love you for it.”

Slowly, carefully, she crawls out from under the piano; Erik follows suit. She takes his hand and helps him stand, satisfied that he shows no signs of nausea.

He holds onto her hands and presses his lips to her fingers. “Thank you, for everything.” 

The accident proves a blessing in disguise, since he is no longer crying.

By now, the room has gone completely dark. They switch on the light, and the powerful brightness dazzles Christine. Erik holds her shoulders, steadying her.

“These electric lights are too harsh for you.” He casts a disapproving glance upwards. A room of this size would be well-lit by one lightbulb, yet the ceiling fixture includes three. “I will replace them with gaslights.”

She shakes her head. “I can adjust. Don’t worry.”

After a few minutes, the light no longer hurts her eyes. She and Erik return to their music. One song follows another, until hours slip away.

Finally, Erik pauses and rubs at his eyes. Recalling his head injury, Christine hovers over him, concerned.

“What’s the matter.”

“Nothing.” He blinks several times to focus his eyes. “The lights are just too bright.”

He stifles a yawn, but Christine still notices the motion. She smiles, unable to hide her amusement, since she rarely find her husband tiring before her.

“The hour is rather late. You should be in bed now, child.” Not only does she imitate Erik’s tone, but also hooks one hand around his shoulders and the other under his knee in an attempt to lift him.

He clutches her arm in a panic. “Stop! You’ll hurt yourself.”

She gives a disappointed huff, but obeys his order. “You can’t possibly weigh more than me.”

For all his imposing height, Erik is essentially a skeleton. His clothing, however tailored, always hangs loosely on his limbs. Touching him, she cannot tell where muscle ends and where bone begins. All the times he leaned on her, it was his height rather than his weight that gave her problems.

He crosses his arms and scoffs. “I am not so tired that I cannot walk. Go to bed. I will be with you shortly.”

“You’re the one that needs rest.” She taps her foot impatiently. “Will you go by yourself, or do I have to carry you?”

He hesitates in giving an answer.

“If I have to wait...or if I exhaust myself taking you to bed…” A devious smile stretches on her face. “I might fall asleep right away…”

“Are you threatening me, Christine?” 

He stares at her, but only receives silence in return.

With a shake of his head and a defeated sigh, he rises from the bench. His legs wobble, and he grabs the edge for support. Christine reaches over to help him. Scowling, he seizes her wrist and drags her into the bedroom alongside him.

To her pleasant surprise, Christine finds she has over-estimated her husband’s fatigue. He seems more eager than her to break in their new bed. They end the day with a final bit of excitement, pushing their bodies to the limit testing out all the features of the unfamiliar surroundings.

* * *

Christine wakes before night has passed. Opening her tired eyes, she can see a sliver of light peeking under the door. Either Erik has woken earlier than she has, or he has not slept at all. She lies still for a minute, and then decides to rise and join him.

Yet, when she searches for a shawl, she sees, under the faint light, the bony form of her husband stretched out upon the bed. Erik could spend several days and nights without slumber, followed by sleeping the sleep of the dead. He must have forgotten to extinguish the lights before succumbing to his fatigue. She sits back down and leans over him, observing his gaunt, uneven face, drained of all energy. Only in sleep does he reveal his sheer exhaustion and vulnerability. She brushes a lock of hair away from his eyes and traces her fingers along his hairline, stopping next to his ear. She hopes that he will sleep peacefully, for there were too many times, both before and after their marriage, that he has filled the night with his sobs and wails.

Just as she is ready to lie down next to him, something makes her pause: outside, in the hallway, there seem to be shuffling steps so soft that she is not sure she has heard them. She tries to dismiss the sound as a trick of darkness, but then, from the bathroom, there comes the unmistakable spray of the bath nozzle.

She could almost believe Erik is refreshing himself, but he is currently sleeping by her. Even knowing of his lifelike mannequins, she is sure that he is the real Erik due to the clammy skin under her fingers. For several minutes that seem like an eternity, the water rushes out of the spout, while the blood rushes through her veins, pumped by a quivering heart. She cannot even turn to look toward the bathroom door, in dread of what she might find there.

The bath drain gurgles. Then, everything falls silent.

Slowly, she looks back. Nothing has changed. The bathroom door is still shut; the house is still dark; she and Erik are the only people in the room and perhaps the entire house. She lets out the breath she is holding, almost disappointed. Again, she wonders if she is imagining things; old pipes could emit a variety of eerie noises.

No, she knows the difference between water running through pipes and water spraying out onto a surface, and she heard the latter.

The bathroom door seems to be the lid of Pandora’s Box, daring her to open it and peer within. After brief consideration, she realizes confronting the lurking danger is preferable to waiting here, dreading what may come.

She turns to Erik, wondering if she should wake him so he could protect her. She decides she cannot disturb his hard-gotten sleep for such a little thing. She quickly presses her lips to his, then rises from bed, wraps herself in a shawl, and heads into the bathroom.

The unlit bathroom looks exactly like she left it. Nothing is out of place; there are no other people present.

Warm steam blows from the bathtub. She collects her courage, then approaches the bath. The steam grows more stifling with every step. Her shaking fingers wrap around the wet curtain. She hesitates, then draws it back in one sudden motion. Panicked eyes dart over the length of the tub; it is empty.

Her hand comes to rest on the adjacent wall, also slick with water. She sweeps her curls to one side and bends down. She feels within the tub itself. Puddles of water coat the bottom.

“Christine?”

Just as she ponders these unsettling details, a hand clasps her shoulder. She gasps and goes rigid in shock, before recognizing her husband’s voice.

“Christine, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Erik. I’m sorry if I woke you.” She slowly stands up. Her heartbeat is still frantic. She cannot raise her head to meet his eyes due to her fear and shame. “I thought...I heard something.”

He takes a look through the area, his eyes seeing more clearly than hers. “What did you find?”

“Nothing,” she replies, feeling rather foolish, like a child searching for monsters under the bed. “Erik, did you bathe before sleeping?”

“I must have.” He raises his arm and sniffs at it, worried that his scent might bother her.

“Oh.” She is not sure of his honesty, but she desperately wants to believe him. Maybe the water is left over from his bath, and the pipes in this house are unusually noisy.

He threads his fingers through her hair, the motion comforting her. “Come back to bed, child.”

She nods, pressing herself to him and allowing him to guide her. It is easier to obey him, to feel safe as he watches over her and chases her fears away.

She sleeps undisturbed for the rest of the night.


	2. The Face in the Mirror

Christine wakes, for the second time, to an empty bed. The sun is already peeking through the edge of the curtain. She jumps out of bed and hurries to pull back the curtains so she can bathe in the sunshine. Before she entered Erik’s underground realm, the late-morning sun had been a simple joy. Now it was a luxury. She quickly changes from her nightgown into her petticoats, eager to start the new day.

Unfortunately, her room lacks a wash basin, so she must go into the bathroom for her toilette. The thought fills her with apprehension. She chides herself for these unfounded fears--if anything is wrong, Erik would know of it.

Cautiously, she peers into the bathroom. The room is unchanged since last night, aside from being better lit. Yet, her nerves remain on edge as she enters.

She stands at the sink and turns the faucet knobs. The cold water on her face clears her head. Gazing into the wall-length mirror, she notes that her reflection looks healthier now. The honey-colored curls and limpid blue eyes are still the same, as is the round face unaltered by age, but now there is a sheen in her hair and a flush to her cheeks. It was not so in the days before her marriage. At the time, her horror at Erik’s rage and sorrow for his suffering, not to mention her confused feelings of love for both him and Raoul, had taken a toll on her. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks gaunt, and her face drained of color. Looking half-alive, she had left Erik, and looking half-alive, she had returned to him.

She opens the drawers, searching for Galen’s cream. To her relief, Erik has supplied only a few simple cosmetics, instead of his usual bewildering array of products. There is a jar of cream, a little palette with powders, a stick of lip rouge, and a pencil which she assumes is to be used for tracing her brows. She uses the cream to finish cleaning her face and hands and leaves the rest aside. Like all men, Erik prefers his wife’s natural beauty. Perhaps because of her modest upbringing, Christine herself has little desire to wear makeup off the stage, though it was an open secret that even the most genteel women used subtle amounts of it to enhance their natural features.

She takes up her silver-backed hairbrush and combs pomatum into her locks, wincing as she hits a snag. Her hair was the envy of her fellow actresses back at the Opera, as she never needed irons to achieve luxurious waves. However, these same waves are easy to tangle, especially as Erik loves playing with them. Lifting her hair to brush the underside, she hums the tune to the old song _Harpans Kraft_ and wonders if she should try a half-chignon. Though the style is long outdated, Erik does enjoy seeing her tresses cascade down her neck and shoulders.

A quick patter of footsteps echoes through the bathroom, interrupting Christine’s song. She stands petrified as her blood drains to her feet. Casting a glance at the door, she finds only empty air, nor is there anyone to be seen within the bathroom itself, especially not in the bathtub that had been the center of the strange activity from the previous night.

Before Christine can let out the breath she is holding, a chill runs down her spine. Or, rather, a freezing cold gust explodes out from inside her, piercing deep into the marrow of her bones. She stiffens and stands straight, staring into the mirror to find, in place of her reflection, a gruesome apparition. Long, limp, loose black hair frames a bloodstained face; gushing blood covers its nose and jaw, dribbling down its simple white chemise, as it faces her with wild, bloodshot eyes.

Frozen in fear, the only thought that passes through Christine’s mind is the Dames Blanches, which the old wives of Perros had always spoken of with fear and reverence; white robed wights haunting abandoned structure that beat those who incurred their wrath within an inch of their lives. Inside the mirror, the apparition fixes its unmoving stare on her and reaches out a bloody hand. Blood rushes back in her veins, her heartbeat fills her ears; she finally tears her eyes away from the image and runs.

In a frenzy, nearly tripping over her petticoats, she tears her way through the hall, shrieking for her husband.

“Erik! Erik! Help! Erik!”

She almost bowls over the man at the top of the stairwell as she collides with him. Even as he holds her by her shoulders, she struggles and bats at him with the hairbrush that she only now realizes she is still holding. She only calms when she hears his familiar voice.

“What’s wrong, Christine? Why do you cry out?”

Knowing herself to be safe, the tension drains out of her, along with her strength. She collapses against him, her free hand clutching tightly at his coat.

“The bloody woman...” 

This is all she can say before her vision blurs, and she swoons.

* * *

When she regains consciousness, she is lying on something soft as cold hands bathe her temples. She opens her eyes to Erik hovering over her, concerned.

“Erik…” she murmurs.

He shakes his head and places a finger over her lips. She watches him go pour a glass of brandy from the bottle now resting on her bureau.

Trying to take deep breaths, she sorts through her memories. She had been at her toilette, and a bloody form had appeared in her mirror… A wave of nausea hits her and she squeezes her eyes closed.

Erik’s footsteps rush toward her, and she smells the brandy in the cup that is being placed at her lips. She realizes she had fainted in Erik’s arms. Erik, the former Opera Ghost, the master mask-maker, the Trapdoor-Lover who once put a secret passageway behind her mirror…

She pushes the cup away, greatly irritated. In spite of her nausea, she opens her eyes and tries to sit up, only for Erik to push her back onto the bed.

“Hush, now. You’ve had a bad shock.” To soothe her, he starts softly humming the tune of a lullaby.

It is almost enough to send her back to sleep, but she is too frustrated to listen.

“Erik.” She says again, more firmly this time. “You promised me a house without any trapdoors.”

“Yes.” Erik replies, confused. “And now we are living in it.”

He once again raises the brandy to her lips. She shakes her head, even more exasperated at his innocent facade.

“Then what was it I saw in my mirror?”

“You saw something in your mirror?” He parrots her question back at her, but there is no mockery in his tone.

“Yes. The bloodstained ghost. I saw her, Erik.” Angry and disappointed, she crosses her arms and glares at him, waiting for him to spin some story about his newest persona. Though she knows the danger of prying too deeply into his affairs, she cannot bring herself to care right now.

Instead of giving her an explanation, Erik places one hand upon her forehead and another upon his own. Shaking his head, he states, “You do not have a fever.”

A hint of doubt creeps into Christine’s mind. While Erik could quickly forget his crimes, he could never resist boasting about the cleverness of his tricks. Surely, if he is the culprit, he would tell her something--anything--of his plans.

“She was in my mirror. I saw her.” She repeats, trying to convince him, but also trying to convince herself.

He remains confused and incredulous, adding further to her frustration.

“I really saw her! Let me show you!” She cries out, now desperate.

She struggles to stand, but Erik presses her down. “Stop. You must rest.”

“But the ghost…”

“There are no ghosts here.” Immediately after saying that, his demeanor softens and he smiles. “Well, except for one. But you have married him and convinced him that he is a man.”

He laughs at his own joke, which proves to be too much for Christine to bear. She turns her face away from him, hot tears stinging her eyes.

“You don’t believe me.”

Her anger, fear, and confusion burst out in a torrent of tears. She curls up, hugging her knees and sobbing. Vaguely, she is aware of leaning against a hard surface, and something stroking her hair from scalp to tip. She does not know how long she spends wailing, but eventually the emotions drain out of her, and her cries die down to a hiccup.

Water dribbles onto her forehead and slips down her cheeks. She realizes that Erik is embracing her and looks up to find him weeping. The pathetic sight sends her into a fresh bout of tears. Immediately after, she recalls that she is still angry and pulls herself away from him, brushing his hand aside when he reaches for her again.

At this, Erik essentially rolls off the bed to prostrate himself on the floor.

“Oh Christine,” he moans miserably, “please forgive your Erik. He did not mean to make you cry. It hurts me so much when you cry.”

“Mm,” she sniffles.

Erik interprets the little noise to mean forgiveness and gets up to sit on the bed. Offering her a handkerchief to wipe her tears, he asks softly, “Would you feel better if we go and see your mirror?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, embarrassed at how weak she sounds. She quickly cleans her face and blows her nose into the handkerchief.

They wait a few minutes more, until both of them no longer feel the need to cry. Then, Erik takes her hand and helps her rise to her feet. As they make their way to the bathroom, Christine follows behind her husband, clutching his hand tightly, much like how she would when walking through the labyrinth of the Opera’s cellars.

To both her relief and disappointment, the ghost has disappeared from the mirror. Not even a trace of blood remains to indicate the events that transpired. Since the danger has passed, she detaches herself from Erik and moves toward the glass.

“It was right here,” she states, raising her hand to touch the cold surface.

Her hands slide down to the bottom rim, groping along the edge, checking for any lever or hinge that indicates a hidden mechanism. Her motions become more frantic as she finds nothing on the mirror’s bottom or sides. She tries to climb onto the sink to reach the top. Erik, seeing this, lifts her by her waist. Yet, she once again fails to find any gimmicks.

Once Erik lets her down, she examines the surrounding areas: the medicine cupboard, the faucets, the sink cabinets. Her search still yields no results. Finally, she sinks to her knees, exhausted and unsure of herself.

Erik has stood to the side and watched her, almost amused at her antics. He crouches next to her and holds her around her shoulders.

“There is nothing more to see here, child. Now, you should get to bed. Perhaps you only saw a trick of the light because you were overly tired. Poor girl, you did travel a long way.”

His soothing voice washes over her and she wants to believe him, but the bleeding spectre seemed so real. She cannot give up and admit it is only a hallucination; to do so would be to question her own sanity.

“I’m not as strong or brilliant as you are. You’d know if there were any hidden tricks, wouldn’t you?” Her tone becomes increasingly pleading. “Can you check the mirror for me, Erik? I’ll go and rest if you do.”

He nods, then stands up. She follows after him and watches carefully as he traces his skilled fingers over the mirror. As he moves toward the bottom right corner, she notices something she missed in her previous panic: a long white object resting on a little pedestal, which, to her nearsighted eyes, almost blends into the similarly colored wall.

She jumps to her feet, sneaks around Erik’s side, and seizes the object before he can react. He starts up and looks toward her.

“What do you have there?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Do you know what it does?”

“Let me see it.” He holds his hand out.

She shakes her head again and steps back from him. She runs her hand over the thing’s length and flicks off the cap at the top, revealing a circle of colored bristles. “Why, it looks like a toothbrush. Is it a toothbrush?”

He regards it as she holds it up. “Perhaps it is. I would like to have a closer look.”

She backs away further, brandishing the device as if defending herself. “I can hold it up for you. See? What difference does it make?”

He sighs, growing impatient. “Christine, what are you doing?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious.” She means for her laugh to be playful, but it comes out hysterical. “I’m a woman, after all, and this little thing is so very strange.”

The top of the object resembles a toothbrush, but the handle is thick and heavy, made of a material different from both wood and metal. More ominously, there is a large button in the center. She is tempted to press the button, to see if it opens up some secret passage, but thinks better of it, as it might activate something far more dangerous.

“Christine, come now, give me that thing.”

Erik takes a step toward her. In response, she hides the mysterious object behind her back. The more he convinces her to relinquish it, the more she is sure it is a switch for a trap, whether his work or another’s. Her mind travels to a far-off day, deep in the bowels of the Opera Garnier, when, under the terrible eye of a fallen angel, she had to choose between the lives of her lover and the rest of Paris. Once again, she is the only thing standing between Erik and some great disaster, and once again, she tries to distract him and assuage his anger. “Not yet. Tell me if it’s really a toothbrush. Please, Erik, just tell me that.”

His long legs close the distance between them in an instant. She grasps the handle tightly. Just as he takes hold of her arm, her thumb brushes the button and the device springs to life, whirring and vibrating in her hand. She shrieks and drops it like it is a burning brand. As it hits the tiled floor, she stares at it, unable to avert her eyes while she awaits the inevitable explosion.

It never comes.

Instead, the brush simply whirls like a windmill, the motion sending the gizmo into a slow circle. She giggles shakily in relief and bends to retrieve it.

“Oh. It wasn’t a grasshopper after all.”

Erik shoots a disdainful look at the contraption. “Of course not. Erik’s tricks would never include such crude devices.”

She offers the gadget to him sheepishly. He touches the spinning bristles, examines the handle, holds it up to his ear, and finally places it back on the sink counter.

“I believe it is a brush attached to a dynamo. Quite harmless.” He smiles and offers her his hand. “Shall we go back now, my dear?”

Utterly defeated, she nods and allows him to take her back to the bedroom and lay her in bed. He tucks her in and hums a lullaby until she relaxes. However, she is not yet asleep when he rises to leave; she grabs onto his sleeve.

“Stay.” She mumbles.

He takes her hand, kisses her fingers, and sits down next to her.

“Aren’t you tired too?” she asks as she closes her eyes. Given how early he slept last night, their journey must have taken a toll on him too.

“Ah, my darling, always so kind,” he sighs blissfully, overwhelmed with the knowledge that this angelic creature cares for him. “No, your husband might be an old man, but he does not yet tire easily. But I will stay with you as long as you wish.”

“Alright. And I’m sorry--”

He presses down on her lips, silencing her before she can finish her apology. “No more. You have strained your voice enough for today.”

She opens her eyes and gives him a pouting look. She is peeved that he would be so quick to think of her voice, but also embarrassed that she had given no consideration to the subject.

He is tempted to kiss those full lips, but settles for kissing her forehead instead.

“Now, sleep. I promise, there will be no more ghosts when you wake up.”

Though his tone is gentle and reassuring, the gleam in his eyes indicates that he will accept no disobedience. Reminded of his time as her “Angel of Music”, she can only comply.

* * *

When Christine wakes for the second time that day, it is late into the afternoon. She sits up and sees Erik leaning by the bedpost, his eyes closed. She decides against waking him and steps out of bed, intending to explore the back garden. Sheer fabric rustles against her skin, and she realizes, dismayed, that she is back in her nightgown.

She is in the process of lacing up her corset when Erik calls to her, his angelic voice hovering over her head, harsh and commanding, “What do you think you are doing?”

She cringes and turns back, feeling guilty despite the fact she has done nothing wrong. As innocently as possible, she answers, “Dressing. I want to go--”

“Did I not tell you to stay silent and rest?” He glares at her, once again the stern mentor and caretaker.

“But…” She opens her mouth to protest, then shuts it. She knows that he is right; her earlier fit of screaming and crying have taxed her voice. Instead, she just motions at the door to the hall.

“If you need anything, I shall get it for you. Now, lie down. You know you’re not feeling well.” His expression softens, and his voice becomes gentle. “...And I would hate to see you hurt yourself further.”

The sunlight, she is tempted to say. Shut within the underground house, she had resigned herself to not knowing morning or night. Yet now, to have the sunlight before her eyes, but being unable to step into it, nearly drives her mad. She would cry, but she has already cried enough for today. Taking a cushion from the corner pile, she marches toward a window and flumps down, staring moodily out at the yard..

“You may open the window if you want fresh air.” Erik suggests, crouching down next to her. “But you must not leave this room. You’ve had enough excitement for today.”

With some effort, the two of them lift up the long unused window. A cloud of dust drifts onto Erik’s hair, and she barely resists laughing at the sight. She helps him shake out the dust, and then smooth his unruly black hair into a presentable style--to compensate for his face, he believes his fashion sense must always be impeccable.

The cool, crisp air and the mellow sunlight does wonders for her state of mind. She leans outward, greedily taking it in. Behind her, Erik reminds her to be careful, lest she lean too far and fall. Eventually, he pulls her back down onto the cushion, but allows her to lean her head against the window sill.

For the remaining daylight hours, Erik keeps her company, regaling her with stories, entertaining her with his sleights of hand, showing her sketches of his marvelous automatons; anything to distract her from thoughts of the outside. He only leaves her side once to fetch her a cup of tea--a light, fragrant green blend flavored with honey, much different from his usual dark, Russian fare. When night falls, he settles her into bed, but declines to join her for the time being.

At first, she waits for him to return. However, as the minutes drag on, she senses her chance. Reasoning that a quick stroll downstairs would not hurt after having been confined for so long, she slips on a dressing robe and descends into the dining room.

The lights have been switched on, making her progress easier. She first walks around the dining room, then the kitchen, relaxing when Erik is nowhere to be seen. The kitchen carries the fragrance of a freshly cooked meal, sparking her hunger. She finds an open tin of sugar biscuits on the kitchen island and takes one. While Erik is not fond of sweet snacks, she herself enjoys biscuits of all types, but must limit her consumption to keep her voice clear. Munching on the cookie, she heads toward the parlor next.

Suddenly the black pane in the center or the parlor flickers, and, as if a window is opening into a different world, strangely clothed people appear through the glass, moving and speaking. Christine stares at the glass, mesmerized as the scenes shift; sometimes close to her, sometimes far away; sometimes outdoors, sometimes indoors; sometimes showing only one person, sometimes showing two or more. Unable to control her curiosity, she steps closer and closer, as if being drawn into this new world. Finally, she stands only a breath away from the glass, bathed in an otherworldly light.

She reaches up to touch the surface, to confirm whether or not this is real. The moment her fingertips make contact, the images in the glass twist and blur, and finally blink out of existence, to be replaced by a shredded tapestry of multicolored vertical lines. She gasps and recoils, her fingers tingling with the heat of the screen, unable to understand what is happening.

Out of the corner of her eye, something moves. She spins around to see Erik, who glares disapprovingly at her.

“I got tired of lying down all the time,” she explains, doing her best to keep her voice to a whisper. “I was going to come up soon. But then there were people moving in that glass. There really were!”

She almost panics as she realizes he might not believe her. However, the glass flickers again, and the images of people return.

“Is it magic?” she clings to his arm, half-fascinated, half-scared.

Erik shakes his head and replies impatiently, “No, it is merely a feat of science. Now, come upstairs and I shall tell you how it is done.”

She nods and follows him. Now that he has found her, she has no other choice. And after this newest shock, she is fine with letting him cradle and cosset her.

The glass, Erik explains, is part of the new technology of moving pictures.The people are not real, merely recorded images like a photograph. However, when photographs taken quickly in sequence are strung together, they create the illusion of movement. Essentially, this invention is a more advanced version of the magic lanterns used at the carnival.

Even with this explanation, the procedures involved are so arcane that they might as well be magic. Still trying to wrap her mind around the concept, she falls asleep. Yet, her dreams give her no peace, sending her back again and again to the day she first saw Erik as a man, when the chandelier dropped, and she was pulled down beneath the ground.

* * *

A feeling of dread remains with Christine into the next morning. Caught between waking and sleeping when she first opened her eyes, she almost screams as she sees Erik lying next to her. Fortunately, she remembers that much has happened since he revealed himself to her, and now he is the one protecting her from ghosts in the mirror.

Or was it a ghost? Surely it was just a trick of her tired eyes. Yet the bloody face is clear in her mind.

She forces herself to get out of bed and change her clothes. She has had enough of rest and recuperation.

Just like the day before, she enters the bathroom. She stares into the mirror and her reflection stares back at her. She closes her eyes, counting to ten before opening them again; nothing changes. Yet, she keeps expecting something strange to appear. Her hands tremble as she goes through her morning grooming routine.

“Zut!” She hisses a mild curse as she drops a hairpin yet again. For almost half an hour, she has been trying to dress her hair, but both her hands and hair refuse to obey her.

“Just leave it down.” Erik’s voice reaches her ears before his reflection appears behind hers. He sweeps up a handful of her hair and tenderly kisses the tangled locks.

She laughs and shakes her head, pulling her hair out of his palm. “I can’t. I’m going out to the garden.”

“Where only your husband shall see you,” he comments, rubbing the silky ends of her hair between his fingers, “and he finds you most beautiful like this.”

She swats at his hand with her brush. “Stop that. It’ll get tangled.”

Their banter calms her down, enough to wind her hair into a loose, lopsided chignon. Erik compliments her appearance profusely; she will never be anything less than heavenly for him. They make it down the stairs and to the glass doors in the back of the house without encountering any apparitions.

Compared to the front yard, the wide back garden is disorganized but thriving. Several shrubs are still in bloom, alongside bright yellow dandelions that peek out from among the green grass. Christine rushes through the doors so quickly that they might as well as not exist. Finally stepping out into the morning sun, she becomes a child again: spreading her arms to embrace the light, finding animals in the shape of the fluffy white clouds, tucking flowers into her hair and the lapels of Erik’s suit, running into the overgrown shrubs in chase of a passing bird. She even asks Erik’s help to climb a plum tree whose branches peek over the garden wall.

During the course of her frolic, the sun climbs in the sky until it is near noontime. The heat drains her strength and she curls up to relax in the shade of the plum tree. Meanwhile, Erik, giving rein to his curiosity, studies an unfamiliar plant. She is ready for a nap when a cloud passes over the sun, casting a shadow over the garden.

And then a ghost appears.

Under the plum tree, only a little distance from Christine, a wispy figure stretches a white hand toward a low-hanging plum. She scrambles to her feet and tries to back away without attracting its notice, but it nevertheless turns to look at her. They lock eyes, and she notes that the spectre has the same face and eyes as the creature in her mirror, but is now clean of blood. It is an androgynous figure, shorter and smaller than even her own delicate frame, but dressed in a man’s white shirt and trousers. A thick, black fringe of hair hangs over a pair of dark, heavy-lidded eyes set in its ashen face and a long braid trails down to its knees.

For several seconds, both of them remain still. The ghost is the first to move, the corners of its mouth twitching up in a smile. At this unnerving act, Christine turns and runs, calling for her husband who seems, at this time, far away.

“Erik!”

“Is something the matter?” He is at her side in an instant, enveloping her in his arms protectively.

She buries her face in his bony chest and gasps, “It’s here! The ghost!”

However, when she finds the courage to look up, she finds the being has vanished.

“I-I really did see it….” She trails off, dejected. “Sorry. I’m being silly again.”

The irony of trying to convince Erik of a ghost’s existence is not lost on her. She casts her eyes downward to avoid seeing his incredulous expression, but he tips her chin up and looks into her eyes.

“I believe you,” he tells her with utmost sincerity, a certain resolve in his voice. He would not disparage her innocent beliefs. If she is truly convinced there is a ghost haunting their house, he will find it for her, or otherwise use his talents to create one. With the features of his death’s head contorted in a rage more horrifying than any apparition, he shoots a withering glare in the area of the plum tree and snarls, “And any ghosts here will learn the price of bothering my wife!”

Immediately, a plum tears away from the branches and hurls itself at Erik’s head. He easily catches it, but then a gust of wind rips through the garden, rustling the grass and throwing the yard door open.

Erik crushes the plum, sending its dark juice running through his pale digits. He chases the invisible spirit to the door, but just as he takes two steps into the streets, the scent of Christine’s perfume drifting from behind reminds him of her presence. It distracts him from his rage long enough to notice his surroundings. With a brief oath, he claps a hand over his terrible, bare face and retreats into the yard.

As he pulls the wooden door shut, his wife grabs onto his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his morning coat.

“Is it gone?” she asks with shaky breaths.

He glances around, confirming she is the only other person present, before slipping his hand away from his face and replying, “Yes. For the time being.”

She stares strangely at him, then turns to the side, covering her mouth with her and making several stifled noises. When he lets out a confused sound, she looks back up, her eyes filled with mirth.

“Oh, love. You’ve got a little mess. It’s adorable.”

Plum juice streaks down Erik’s face, as if he was a naughty boy who overindulged during a picnic. Due to the tension lifting so suddenly, and her feelings of vindication, Christine can barely stop laughing as she pulls out her handkerchief and beckons to her husband.

“Bend down a little, alright?”

While a little miffed at her reaction, he still follows her request. His irritation evaporates in favor of joy as soon as she touches his face. She cleans him gently, lovingly, the way a mother, more fortunate than his own, would her perfectly formed babe. His mother had denied his cursed face these tender ministrations, but his wife, his angel, grants them freely.

“There!” She exclaims, satisfied with her handiwork. To reward him for his patience, she kisses his forehead.

Yet again, her love and mercy is nothing short of divine. Erik’s soul burns with love for her as he seizes her in a tight embrace

“Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely. “You should not have to do this for Erik. His poor mother never did.”

Christine pats him on the back, comforting him. After holding her for a while, he finally regains his composure.

“Let’s go back inside,” she says, giving him another kiss on the chin.

He is all too happy to agree to that, sweeping her up in his spindly but deceptively strong arms and carrying her into the parlor. Reclining in the long leather couch, she smugly demands that he admit to his errors in judgement and he accedes, apologizing several times for his initial doubts about the ghost. She lets him kiss every grass stain that coats her fawn-colored princess-line dress, and, when satisfied with his contrition, gives him her stained hands to kiss as well. His ensuing praises and declarations of love finally persuade her to let down her already messy hair, and not long after, loosen the buttons on her skirts as well. Her energetic kisses show just how well the outside air has refreshed her. While he starts out maddened with desire for her, her voracity comes to surpass his own. However, due to her concern for tidiness and future guests, the soft, convenient couch is ultimately abandoned in favor of a more private area. He cannot complain about this, since she spends the journey upward with her arms wound around his neck and her supple legs wrapped around his waist.

He is loath to leave her side once their intimacies have concluded. He wants to continue lying there, taking in the scent of her lilac perfume, the sight of her perfect curves, the feel of her soft flesh. And from the way she smiles as she traces a finger over a jagged scar on his collarbone, she wants to stay with him too, despite all his deformities. She is so alive that when they touch, he believes he is also living. Yet, there is still the matter of his unwanted ghostly guest. After the incident in the garden, he must acknowledge its existence.

“Wait a while, love,” he tells her reluctantly. His heart aches at her disappointed look, and he kisses her pouting lips to mollify her.

Mustering his self-control, he rises from their bed, dresses himself, and conducts a thorough examination through the house for any signs of activity. Satisfied that there are no intruders, spectral or otherwise, he returns to his wife and finds her up and dressed. He reassures her that there will be no more hauntings in their home, and then, to her happy surprise, he proposes to resume their music lessons.

“After all,” he says, “Moving house is no reason to put off practicing your skills.”

* * *

Their lesson goes well. Most of it consists of rehearsing familiar pieces, such as _Ah! je ris de me voir si belle_ from _Faust_ , _Amour, ranime mon courage_ from _Roméo et Juliette_ , _Che smania, ohimè, che affanno_ from _Otello_ , and _Ach, ich fühl's_ from _Die Zauberflöte_. Like all other times, when they immerse themselves in music, all their problems and conflicts melt away, and they are left with their love for music and one another. It is an intimacy unlike all other, for it is a joining purely of souls.

They stop late into the evening. After she finishes her vocal cooldown, Christine sits in her husband’s lap. When she first moved into this house, she was eager to see the sun, but now, she longs for Erik and the darkness he belongs to. After all, he protects her from evil spirits, and the daylight does not.

One of Erik’s hands snakes up, hovering close to, but never daring to touch, her delicate white neck that serves as a casket to one of the world’s most precious treasures.

“The voice of an angel,” he states reverently. After an entire day without her song, he is like a starving man finally eating his fill.

Christine frowns and grabs his hand. At times, he could make her jealous of her own voice, the voice that he had found and molded and put into her. Her free hand races up to his collar, pulling him down and kissing him forcefully to remind him that he married a woman and not just her voice.

Though surprised, he returns the kiss just as passionately. When she releases him, he gawks at her with a confused grin, not sure what he has done to merit such a reward. He leans forward for another kiss, but she giggles and holds up a hand to stop him.

“Wait,” she says, “answer me a question first. Do you prefer kisses or songs?”

He hesitates, thick brows furrowed in thought. From her expectant gaze and pursed lips, he knows that he risks heavy retaliation by not giving the right answer. And yet, strange questions like these rarely commanded straightforward answers. There has to be some trick involved, a third choice that lies apart from the two she presents, and his genius mind is meant to find it.

“I cannot choose,” he finally replies after much consideration, hoping his words will please her. “Your song is like a kiss, and your kiss is like a song.”

His compliment is so sweet, and his tone so sincere, that she almost gives in to him. Still, she persists. With a smile and a shake of her head, she tells him, “That’s nice. But, Erik, you have to actually choose one.”

As the haze of shock over his failure clears, he buries his face in his hands. For all his powerful intellect, he would never understand the complexities of her feminine mind. She is a divine mystery, the type that could be contemplated for a lifetime without ever coming to a resolution.

“Must I?” he whimpers.

“Yes.” She leaps to her feet and, with mock gravity, states, “If you do not, then you shall no longer have access to either.”

Her threat smashes into him. He feels his mind torn into halves as he realizes no matter his answer, he would lose an important part of his life. He is tempted to choose her kisses, as they are an expression of her love, but her songs are the very breath of her soul. He cannot abandon her affection, the only thing that reminds him he is a man. He cannot betray music, the only beautiful part of his ugly body and soul. He needs both of these things; he needs all of her. Why must she torment him so? Did she endure the same agony when he forced her between scorpion and grasshopper, between a life with him and freedom at the cost of death for everyone at the Opera?

“Cruel Christine!” He groans, on the verge of tears. “Your songs and your kisses, both issue from your mouth. How can I live without either?”

Perhaps, years ago, when he expected nothing but scorn from all mankind, he could have admonished her for her silliness and cared little for her reaction, for he had learned to deaden his desires. However, years of marriage and the happiness it brought him had chipped away at his vaunted self-control. Now, he cannot bear the thought of being deprived of her voice, her kisses and caresses, or any of her other lovely little gestures for any length of time.

He slams his fists, and then his hideous head, against the keys of the piano. Tossing his head back, he tears at his hair, and then digs his fingers into the decaying parchment which serves as the skin of his dead face. Anger stirs in him. How dare she mock him so, after she has made him this way? He could still refuse to play her game, and then take whatever he wants by force. She cannot deny him; she is his wife. She wants to reduce him to a mewling animal and he would show her an animal.

Her soft hands come to rest over his bony knuckles, and his anger trickles away, to be replaced by remorse. How could he return to being a monster, now that she has made him a man? She would only hate him, should he force her. Having learned true love is only given willingly, he would not reduce their relationship to fear and lies once more.

Christine bends over her husband and gently slides his hands away from his face. His upset state inspires her pity. With a soft sigh, she asks, “Is this so hard for you?”

A little whimper from the back of his throat and a slight nod is his answer in agreement. He wraps his arms about himself, futilely shielding himself from the chaos of his desires.

She tucks a lock of his hair behind his ear as she continues, “Then answer me a different question. Do you prefer songs or kisses or me?”

Erik’s eyes light up within their deep sockets at this sudden reprieve. “You, of course! I want you! Even if you never sing for me or kiss me again, I would die happy--”

Before he can finish speaking, his wife silences his lips with her own. This time she does not stop him when he takes a second kiss, and then a third. He has little idea of what brought about this ordeal, or why he should be richly rewarded at its conclusion, but he will not question her mercy.

Once they both settle down, Christine’s thoughts start drifting. The unfamiliar devices that litter their home are less eerie now that ghosts no longer lurk in the corners. The more she thinks about spinning toothbrushes and moving pictures, the more her curiosity is piqued.

“Can we go downstairs?” She finally asks. “I want you to show me the moving pictures again.”

Erik, willing to do anything to remain in his wife’s good graces, immediately agrees. They descend into the kitchen, which once again smells of cooking.

“Look.” Christine hisses, clutching her husband’s arm.

The rosewood dining table is set out for two. The facing seats each have a cheese omelette garnished with parsley and tomatoes on a plain white porcelain plate, along with a fork and knife. A stack of paper napkins is deposited in the center of the table, and atop of them sits a folded card.

Christine steps toward the table, but Erik halts her. He circles around the table, inspecting everything for hidden switches. Only when he finds none does he take up the card, then opens it with its back facing him. Again, he finds nothing suspicious, so he turns the card over and reads through it.

His face instantly darkens. Christine, peering over his side, sees that the paper is covered in hastily scrawled lines. The letters are legible, but crude.

“What does it say?” She asks, the familiar fear returning.

He sets the note back on the table.

“Nothing that you need to be concerned over.”

“It’s not dangerous?”

“No, our ghost,” his voice drips with derision, “is not foolish enough to think it can threaten me, though it is a great nuisance, and one without any hint of finesse at that.”

She picks up the note, squinting at the letters. She finds that she can recognize few, if any, of the words.

“What language is this?”

“English.” He has his best haughty sneer as he answers. “An unpleasant language, only redeemed by the likes of Shakespeare, Hawthorne, and Poe. And perhaps the Brontës, if you are in need of mindless entertainment.”

“Well, then, can you tell me what it means?”

“I’ve told you not to be concerned.”

“It can’t hurt for me to know, can it? You said it wasn’t a threat.”

The more he tries to hide the contents from her, the more she insists that he divulge them. Finally, her persistence wins out, and he translates the note.

“ _Sir(s) and Madame(s),_

_Since you are currently occupying my house, I suppose I should try to act as a good host. I believe we will get along very well so long as you do not make too much trouble. There are some rules I would like you to obey. Firstly, I despise loud noises early in the morning, so please try to stay quiet until the sun is higher in the sky. Secondly, clean up after yourselves. Thirdly, I cannot think of anything for the moment, but I will contact you with these notes, and feel free to contact me after the early morning hours._

_Please do not try to use the stoves. I do not fancy the idea of my house burning down. I have made your dinner tonight, and I will do so every night._

_I love your music. Thank you for letting me listen. Sorry if I scared you. Then again, you’re awfully easy to scare._

_Sincerely,_

_Your host._ ”

He looks up to find his wife grinning. For the moment, she is more entertained than scared, as not only are her claims about the ghost proven correct, but by some cosmic coincidence, Erik has been subjected to a taste of his own tricks.

“Do you find this amusing?” He himself breaks into a smile, more demented than playful, as he continues. “Yes, it is rather funny that our ghost thinks itself the owner of this house. And it wants Erik to follow its rules. It will not be so confident once it realizes it is corresponding with the former Opera Ghost!”

“But it’s a very courteous ghost.” She remarks. “At least, it has yet to ask for 20,000 francs.”

He scoffs. “It has rendered no services deserving of 20,000 francs.”

She gives him a disapproving glance and nudges him in the ribs with her elbow. He wisely stops gloating about his crimes.

“It made us dinner.” As she speaks, she looks toward the omelette and realizes that it looks and smells very appetizing.

While Erik has very little interest in food, he is keen to ensure his wife’s safety. He cuts off a piece of one omelette and examines its texture, odor, and taste. Satisfied that it is not poisoned, he allows his wife to take a seat and eat.

For the next half hour, Christine finds herself eating the strangest meal she has ever been served, a meal cooked by a ghost. She wonders if the ghost is as fearsome as it appeared to be, or if it truly wants to communicate. Most of all, she wonders what it will do next.

She looks up at Erik and smiles. She is not so scared, so long as he is with her. She cannot be sure of the ghost’s intentions, but she can be sure that she and her husband will overcome any danger together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this chapter was beta-ed by SymphonyinA. Please check out her works [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/8811652/SymphonyinA)
> 
>  _Harpans Kraft_ (The Power of the Harp) is a popular pan-Scandinavian ballad. The protagonists are a girl named Magnihild and her fiancee Villeman, or Little Kersti and Peder for more Christianized names. Magnihild has repeated dreams that she will be drowned if she crosses a certain river, and only agrees to go on her wedding procession when Villeman promises to build three bridges. However, despite his precautions, the water spirit, the Nacken, that lives in the river still abducts her. Villeman, a great musician, takes his harp and plays so beautifully it touches the heart of the Nacken, who returns Magnihild to him.
> 
>  _Ah! je ris de me voir si belle_ is Marguerite's Jewel Aria from Gounod's _Faust_ , in which the heroine tries on some jewels Faust leaves on her doorstep.
> 
>  _Amour, ranime mon courage_ is one of Juliet's arias from Gounod's French opera version of _Romeo and Juliet_ , corresponding to the "Farewell. God knows when we shall meet again" soliloquy, when she drinks the sleeping potion.
> 
>  _Che smania, ohimè, che affanno_ is one of Desdemona's arias from the Rossini (not Verdi) opera version of _Othello_. It takes place in a scene original to the opera, where Rodrigo and Othello are set to duel, and Desdemona is worried that Othello might not survive.
> 
>  _Ach, ich fühl's_ is one of Pamina's arias from Mozart's ~~fairy tale divorce drama~~ opera _Die Zauberflöte_. Pamina is lamenting that her lover, Prince Tamino, no longer loves her, as he will not talk to her.
> 
> Conradin Kreutzer's _Seliger Tod_ (Blessed Death), mentioned last chapter, is a lieder based on a poem by Ludwig Uhland. The same poem also inspired a Liszt composition of the same name. It is a poem about erotic love and compares lovemaking to death.


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